I saw him on the Blue Line. Two seats from the back, coat zipped up to his chin, shoes falling apart at the seams. He had the kind of tired that doesn’t come from sleep—it comes from life.A tiny kitten, no more than a few weeks old, curled up in the crook of his arm like she’d been there her whole life. He held her so gently, like she was made of paper and dreams. She was fast asleep, paws tucked under her chin, purring so loud I could hear it over the train.He told me he’d discovered her three nights ago in an alley behind a bakery. Crying. Wet. Cold. He gave her the last bit of his sandwich and wrapped her in the only dry scarf he had. “Figured I could give her one warm night,” he said. “But she stayed.”
